


as the sun blew out

by endquestionmark



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-15
Updated: 2012-12-15
Packaged: 2017-11-21 05:42:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/594101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/endquestionmark/pseuds/endquestionmark
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They give the wetsuits a test run.  Ahem.</p>
            </blockquote>





	as the sun blew out

**Author's Note:**

  * For [walfs](https://archiveofourown.org/users/walfs/gifts).



> So those nine minutes of the movie came out, right. And I spent about half an hour having a crisis over those goddamn wetsuits, and I was stupid enough to do it where [Kacey](http://walfs.tumblr.com/) could hear, and then [this happened.](http://walfs.tumblr.com/post/38003327228/hey-gamble-more-torsos-neck-butt) And then it got worse.
> 
> Kacey, _why_.

They give the suits a test run, of course. Engineering insists. They don't exactly dive off a cliff that time, though Uhura does take a certain amount of unholy glee in dropping them out of a shuttle, and Jim does almost get buried in an underwater landslide (of all fucking things) and gets scraped up to kingdom come, blood blossoming dark and sliding back into focus the closer they get to the surface, kicking towards the fractured images of the binary suns. By the time they break back into the air, there is a red wash down the plane of Jim's cheek, and he's laughing and gasping at the same time, spitting his rebreather to dangle just under the surface. McCoy wants to use it to whack Jim over the head. It's times like this he has to just tread water and repeat _do no harm_ in his head until the urges pass.

"I think they'll work fine," Jim finally says, when he's stopped laughing and spitting saltwater as a result of the laughing. "See? Didn't even tear." McCoy can't quite tell through the ripples, but it looks like he's pointing at his dick.

"How fortunate for the rest of us," he manages, because if he says anything else he's liable to drown Jim himself and spare them all.

"The _suit_ ," Jim elaborates, grinning.

"I _know_ ," McCoy counters, and adds, "Beam us up, or so help me God you're going to need a new captain," as Jim starts laughing again.

++

He's still laughing when they arrive on the transporter pad, though it's significantly modulated by the fact that apparently he also swallowed half the ocean. There's water everywhere. Scotty is really, really not amused. McCoy shrugs at him. It's always good to know Jim is causing somebody else a headache as well.

And okay, yes, maybe he can't quite look away when Jim drags the back of his hand across his lips, spit-shiny, and then licks. "Salt," he says, which - why is he fucking surprised? He just jumped into an _ocean_. His hair is already starting to spike a little in the dry air of the transporter room, and he shakes his head, which is when McCoy notices the line of the suit along his shoulders, and. And.

Maybe that's why he jumps when Jim grabs him by the wrist. "Success!" he proclaims, and drags them both out of the room, leaving a trail of puddles and Scottish indignation.

++

The suit fucking matches Jim's eyes. McCoy hates everything about his life right now. He runs a hand through his hair and that's salt-sticky too, already a mess, and he's only making it worse. Jim isn't helping. Jim drags them into McCoy's office and commandeers the desk to perch on while he sculpts McCoy's hair. McCoy wants, simultaneously, to swat Jim's hand away and to take that suit off him with his teeth. Life is difficult.

"Bones," Jims drawls, wrapping his legs around McCoy's sides. "Hey, Boooones." He drums on McCoy's knees with his heels. "Turn around!" His eyes are fever-bright when McCoy turns his eyes, and he leans in, nose brushing McCoy's ear. "Your suit looks painted on."

"I'm sorry, is this Mister My Dick Didn't Rip?" McCoy says, because his mouth tends to get in the way of his brain and/or dick a lot.

"Yes, this is," Jim says. "Care to give your medical opinion on that?"

"Shut up," McCoy growls, and Jim laughs, a puff of air against his lips, and yanks him in, hand wrapped around the back of his neck.

He does taste like salt. He tastes like iron, the blood starting to go gummy around his eye, and he tastes like the ocean, and McCoy chases the taste with his tongue, gasping when Jim runs hands down his ribs, sliding off the desk to fumble with the zip at his neck. "Come on," Jim grouses, scraping along the suit with his nails. "God, did nobody take easy access into account?"

"We can't all think about sex all the time," McCoy says, breathless, though he has this sneaking sense of awful hypocrisy. "Some of us are trying to make sure we don't get, you know, crushed by rocks, or eaten by space sharks, or -" Jim turns them around, vaguely lifts and pushes him onto the desk. "- dammit, Jim, are you even listening?"

"Found it!" Jim says brightly, and then proceeds to ignore it utterly, scratching gently along McCoy's jaw, down his throat, across his pulse points. McCoy lets his head fall back and makes a noise, small and high in his throat, and Jim leans in to trace his tongue along the sting of it.

"Easy fucking access," McCoy says, and wraps his legs around Jim, because hell if he's going to mess up his desk without doing it properly. "Did you mean dicking around?"

"You're so demanding," Jim whines, and sucks a mark into McCoy's throat, just above his clavicle. "God, fine," and he just leans in, takes the tab of the zip between his teeth, and undoes it, top to bottom, hands pressing the suit to McCoy's chest, abdomen, thighs. McCoy thinks he must white out for a moment there, because the next thing he feels is Jim, biting his lip hard, and all the breath just goes out of him. He scrabbles at Jim's chest, managing to get his zip halfway down, before Jim just presses him back onto the desk, climbing up to kneel above him. 

There are papers _everywhere_. McCoy knows that if he comments on it, Jim will just call him a grumpy old fart, so instead he shrugs off the sleeves of the suit, taking advantage of his newfound mobility to stroke two fingers across Jim's throat just to see him close his eyes, feel the catch in his throat, the hitch of his breath. "Now who's dicking around," Jim says, and rolls his hips against McCoy's, grip tight enough to bruise, even through the suit.

"Oh, hell," McCoy says, even as his hips snap up in response. He wants the line of Jim's half-gloves burned into his ribs; he wants to peel the damn suit off Jim one piece at a time; he wants, he wants. If he's going to ruin his desk he at least wants to get fucked senseless in the bargain. "You are not making me come in the suit, because I have goddamn dignity. Jim! Engineering is going to hate us forever!"

++

Engineering is not amused.


End file.
